


If you don't have the answer, I don't know the question

by sabrina_il (marina)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Boys Kissing, Food, Food and Booze, Friendship, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Trolling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:59:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/pseuds/sabrina_il
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sid and Geno are both sad. Ovi figures he can help with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you don't have the answer, I don't know the question

**Author's Note:**

> This fic assumes that after Maria Kirilenko lost in the Rolan Gaross tournament she and Ovi decided to spend some of their summer traveling in the US.
> 
> It also assumes some other things, which have nothing to do with Evgeni Malkin's house. That house was researched meticulously! (Finally a fic where I do not fuck with people's residences! *proud*)
> 
> Also, this fic briefly refrences [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/403095), which I wrote the LAST time the Pens flunked out of the playoffs. You don't need to read it to understand this fic but you probably should if you're angry that this has no porn in it. Sorry, I was porned-out this year!
> 
> When I asked Roga to make this fic better, she did.

Sasha catches the last episode of Slaughter of the Penguins at a bar in LA, curled up with Masha and a bunch of their friends, laughing and drinking while the TV mutely displays Pittsburgh gasping for their last breath before finally giving it up. He doesn’t watch the postgame interviews but by that night his inbox is full of news stories and soundbites. It didn’t use to be like this, but with Sochi looming everyone’s on high alert. These days people send him news about pretty much anyone on Team Russia’s potential roster, whether he gives a fuck about them or not. Asking people to stop has proved pointless.

“I’m gonna take a flight through Pittsburgh,” Sasha says, a few hours later, lying on the bed as Masha’s folding her shirts to go into the suitcase. 

It takes her a moment to catch on. “Zhenya?” she says, packing things in her small makeup bag.

“Yeah,” Sasha says. “Just a day or two.”

“Okay,” Masha says, closing the suitcase and climbing on the bed with him. “I’ll call my girlfriends in New York and tell them we can finally go out and party like we used to,” she smiles at him, wide and teasing, her hair in its usual pre-sleep state of disarray. 

Sasha smiles back. “Just make sure you send me the pictures.”

She snorts, still smiling, and climbs back off the bed, headed for the bathroom.

*

Sasha doesn’t say anything, just extends the hand holding a suitably expensive bottle of whiskey he got at the airport when Zhenya opens the door. 

Zhenya’s face cracks into a smile - for the first time that week, Sasha would guess - and he steps aside to let Sasha into his kitchen.

They’d never do something like this during the season, but summer is fair game in terms of hard liquor at pre-evening hours and the main point of Sasha coming here is to remind Zhenya that his summer, with all its perks, has now officially begun.

They get ice and tumblers and sit on the couches in Zhenya’s sadly decorated living room and watch recorded episodes of Uralskiye Pelmeni and Bolshaya Raznitza clips on youtube. Sasha doesn’t usually watch Russian shows unless he’s back home and he hasn’t been, really, since his own season ended. It’s nice, cracking up at some of the jokes he missed, recognizing many of them from memes he’s been seeing on twitter and vK. 

“We should eat something,” Zhenya says, running a hand over his face after throwing back another shot. 

“Yeah,” Sasha agrees. “What do you got?” The last time he ate was on the plane. 

Zhenya takes a moment to think about it. “Shit, only frozen pelmeni, I think?”

Sasha cracks up. “Fine, master chef, let’s do that.” They could order in, but it would take too long.

Sasha doesn’t know much about booze but he knows buying expensive shit is better than the alternative, as a rule of thumb, and he’s glad it paid off in this case. He hardly felt it while sitting down, but standing up he realizes the drinking has definitely had an effect. Between the two of them he’s not sure either one should be handling boiling water right now.

“You talk to your parents yet?” Sasha says, leaning against a counter as Zhenya digs stuff out of his freezer. 

“Of course,” Zhenya says, opening a cupboard to pull out a large pot. Judging from the amount of pelmeni packets he’s laid out they’re going to cook everything in his freezer, which should be enough for a small army. “They’re gonna meet me when I fly back. No point in sticking around in Moscow this time.”

“You’re gonna be back at some point though, right?” Logically Sasha knows some people spend their entire lives without living in Moscow but personally he can’t understand how someone could spend even a single summer living anywhere else in Russia. Of course, he knows most people feel the same way, considering Zhenya bought his own house in Moscow two years ago.

Zhenya fills the pot with water and hauls it back over to the stove. “Yeah, I guess. I just need some time back home first, you know?”

Sasha nods, watching Zhenya light a flame under the stove.

“So, how’s your summer’s been?” Zhenya says, when he’s finally done with the prepwork and all they have to do is wait for the salted water to boil. 

“Pretty great,” Sasha shrugs. “Would have preferred a longer postseason and Worlds sucked pretty badly, but you know.”

It’s Zhenya’s turn to nod. 

“I’m sorry, man,” Sasha says, for the first time. He doesn’t need to specify - Zhenya knows why he’s here. 

“Yeah,” Zhenya nods. “You know,” he ducks his head and looks at the floor for a moment, hands gripping the counter behind him. 

Sasha’s about to offer him a pat on the back when the doorbell rings, loud enough to reverberate through the empty house. 

“That’s probably the delivery guy,” Zhenya says, wiping his hands on a towel. Behind him the water’s beginning to boil. “I ordered some groceries. Got three more days before my flight.”

“I’ll get it,” Sasha says, pushing away from the counter. “You focus on the important things.”

It does turn out to be a delivery guy - standing on the front porch with bags full of groceries - but he looks startlingly familiar.

“Ovechkin,” Sidney Crosby says, trying to hide a scowl.

“Crosby,” Sasha says, not bothering to try.

*

“Your boyfriend’s here,” Sasha yells, as Crosby follows him into the kitchen.

“Don’t call me that,” Crosby says, and Sasha has to admit he’s surprised at Crosby’s Russian skills. “Boyfriend” has become standard Russian, but most English speakers can’t recognize it with Russian pronunciation. Crosby must have been spending more time listening to Russian speech than than he had when he and Sasha last met.

Sasha’s words have the desired effect, however, and by they time they enter the kitchen Zhenya’s trying to hide a smile by stirring the pot of pelmeni.

Behind Sasha, Crosby puts down the bags of groceries heavily on the kitchen table.

“Hey, Sid,” Zhenya says, pulling the wooden spoon out of the water.

“Hey, Geno,” Crosby says, and even Sasha can tell he sounds guarded.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Relax, Crosby. I’m just here to cheer Geno up,” Sasha says, going to observe the pelmeni in progress as Zhenya vacates his spot.

“Yeah, well.” Crosby doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead there are sounds of grocery bags being torn open. Sasha doesn’t look over to see what they’re doing. He adds more salt to the water.

“Thanks, Sid,” Zhenya says. “I order groceries, not come yet.” 

“Yeah,” Crosby says. “I just thought we could make dinner or something, I didn’t have anything to do tonight, so.” Sasha turns around as Sid unpacks the last of the food. Fruit and pasta and frozen fish. Sasha’s impressed. 

“Sorry,” Crosby says, not making eye contact. “Didn’t realize you had company.”

“Don’t worry,” Sasha says, grinning. “We have enough food for everyone.” They could feed all the sports teams in Pittsburgh with the amount of pelmeni Zhenya’s apparently planning to cook. “And booze, too.” Sasha adds the last just to see the expression on Crosby’s face, but apparently he’s mellowed out since 2009. He looks mildly interested instead of judge-y. 

It doesn’t take long for the first batch to be ready and Zhenya fishes them out of the water and into bowls while Sasha gets the butter, sour cream and mustard. On second thought he switches the mustard out for horseradish. Frozen, store-bought pelmeni need all the help they can get.

They grab the condiments, forks and the cooked batch Zhenya hands them and take it into the living room, where they turn on ESPN. Sasha considers putting on one of the sitcoms Zhenya likes - even though Sasha’s never watched any of them - just to watch Crosby experience television where everyone laughs at jokes he doesn’t understand, but it’s a fleeting thought.

Zhenya joins them briefly, with another batch, before going back to the kitchen. 

“Whiskey?” Sasha says, offering Crosby Zhenya’s tumbler as an olive branch.

Crosby nods, after a moment of hesitation. As soon as his glass is full Crosby throws the shot back, without waiting for Sasha. The enthusiasm is a little strange but Sasha supposes that even for robot Sidney Crosby, getting crushed in the playoffs is getting crushed in the playoffs. He pours him another shot.

By the time Zhenya joins them again - not carrying any more pelmeni, which means he left a few batches back in the kitchen - the food they originally brought with them is cool enough to eat.

Sasha pours Crosby another shot from the quickly depleting bottle as Zhenya enters and it makes Zhenya shoot Sasha an accusatory glare. Whatever, Canada’s golden boy is old enough to make his own decisions.

“Sid, have some,” Zhenya says, sitting down on Crosby’s other side and pushing a plate full of pelmeni into his hands. 

Sasha can’t tell if its the hunger or the superior Russian food stores in Pittsburgh but the pelmeni do actually look pretty good, now that the butter’s melted. Crosby knocks back the shot Sasha poured him and thanks Zhenya, taking the plate.

Sasha wordlessly passes Crosby the sour cream, expecting him to balk or at least look at him oddly but Crosby doesn’t even blink, just takes the plastic container and scoops some out over his plate with his fork. 

“Thanks,” he says, passing the sour cream back. Sasha puts it down and pours them both another round. 

Zhenya gets himself another glass eventually, and it doesn’t take them long after that to finish the whiskey. When they’re done with two plates of pelmeni each Zhenya digs up a half empty vodka bottle in his freezer and brings that over as well. 

“You played a good game,” Sasha says as Zhenya does the pouring.

“No we didn’t,” Crosby says, glaring.

“No, you didn’t,” Sasha agrees, grinning. 

Zhenya sighs and then throws the remote at him. 

*

Over the next hour or so Crosby seems intent on catching up with Sasha and Zhenya in amount of alcohol consumed. Zhenya lets him search through his pantry for wine and is surprised when Crosby actually digs something up. Sasha refuses to touch it - it looks like it’s probably vinegar by now - but Crosby drinks it enthusiastically, straight from the bottle once Zhenya tastes it and refuses to have more. 

“I heard you got drunk and went to bother Giroux after you burned out of the playoffs last year,” Sasha says, conversationally, looking at Crosby and chewing on a sub-par pelmen’.

“That’s just a rumor,” Crosby says, leaning back on the couch and throwing an arm over his eyes. His words are beginning to slur. 

Zhenya sneaks a hand around Crosby, letting him lean his head on Zhenya’s shoulder. Crosby seems profoundly grateful, making a small, happy noise when his face makes contact with Zhenya’s green t-shirt. 

“So, how’s your girlfriend?” Crosby says, out of nowhere.

It takes Sasha a moment to make sure he heard Crosby right. “OK,” he says.

“She’s pretty,” Crosby says, his eyes closed, one arm wraps itself around Zhenya’s neck. “Geno’s pretty too.”

Sasha bursts out laughing. Mostly from the mental image of comparing Masha and Zhenya’s hotness than from the overall ridiculousness of Crosby’s statement. 

“Sid, I think you need sleep,” Zhenya says, gently unwrapping Crosby’s hands from around his neck with a smile Sasha can’t help but read as full of fondness. 

“So, is this what it’s going to be like in Sochi?” Sasha says, leaning back to settle more comfortably into the couch. His evening was getting more and more amusing. “Captain Canada throwing himself at you in between games?”

“Shut up,” Zhenya says, shifting on the couch so Crosby can more comfortably settle on his chest. “It’s just a thing he does sometimes. He doesn’t usually drink like this.”

“Wait,” Sasha says, incredulous. “This isn’t the first time he’s hit on you?” 

“You’re so soft, Geno,” Crosby says, in English, planting little kisses on Zhenya’s shirt.

Sasha manages to hold back hysterical laughter, but it’s a struggle. “So, what, once a year he gets hammered and begs you to sleep with him? Is that the deal?”

“No!” Zhenya says, pushing Crosby gently away so Crosby’s mouth isn’t pressed up against any part of him. “This is like, the third time since I’ve known him that he’s said stuff like this. I just... He’s... he forgets where his head is, sometimes.”

“Sid,” Sasha says, leaning closer and not looking at Zhenya. “You want to fuck Geno, don’t you?”

“Enough,” Zhenya says before Crosby can answer, steel in his voice. He turns Crosby’s face so their eyes meet. “I’m going to get you cup of coffee,” he says in English. “Stay here.”

He extricates himself from Crosby’s octopus hold and heads for the kitchen.

Sasha makes no move to get out of Crosby’s personal space. Crosby looks wrecked, Sasha will give him that. Cheeks flushed, hair messy, slumped on the couch now that Zhenya’s gone as if no one’s ever taught him the importance of back muscles. A poster child for why mixing wine and hard liquor is a bad idea.

Their eyes meet and for a moment Crosby appears more lucid. His jaw tightens, his eyes grow harder. 

“I won’t use this against you,” Sasha says, before Crosby shuts down completely and passes out to reboot or something. 

“Why?” Crosby says, voice still not quite his own.

Sasha shrugs, “Zhenya.”

After a moment Crosby nods at him, a silent concession.

Zhenya walks back into the living room, holding a hot mug of what smells like black coffee.

“Why do you keep saying no to him?” Sasha says, in Russian, as Zhenya sits back down next to Crosby, placing the mug on the table.

Zhenya glares at him. “He’s not himself.”

“He’s more himself than he usually is,” Sasha counters. Zhenya knows it’s true. Alcohol doesn’t change who you are, doesn’t give you brand new desires. It just lowers your inhibitions a bit.

“So, what, I should just fuck him?” Zhenya says, still sounding angry.

Crosby takes that as his cue, apparently latching on to the Russian swear word he’s heard countless times before.

“Geno,” he says, pulling Zhenya’s head down so their foreheads are touching. His breathing is heavy and his eyes slide shut.

“You’re out of the fucking playoffs,” Sasha says, picking up the mug from the table and leaning back against the couch. “Stop worrying about this shit for once.” He takes a sip - Zhenya’s coffee making skills are atrocious, as usual. “He’s a big boy. Give him the benefit of the doubt,” he puts the mug back on the table.

In front of him Crosby’s hands come up to caress Zhenya’s hair and Zhenya finally sighs, taking a deep breath, and kisses Crosby. It’s slow and uncertain at first; Crosby makes a happy sound and tries to push Zhenya back into the couch but Zhenya holds on, holds Crosby still and keep kissing him, licking into his mouth. His fingers dig into Crosby’s hair.

Sasha watches, a little fascinated. He’s sometimes idly wondered, especially in his youth, about what Crosby looks like when he has sex. This isn’t quite that but it feels close enough. Crosby is open and desperate and in too much of a hurry, like Zhenya will push him away any moment now. After a few seconds it stops being fascinating and starts being awkward.

“Well, then,” Sasha says, rising from the couch. He’s still a little wobbly, fuck. Good thing he didn’t drive here. 

Zhenya tears himself away from the kiss and Crosby whines, helplessly. Sasha wants to roll his eyes - did Crosby actually pine for Zhenya for years without once propositioning him like a normal human being? 

“I’m gonna go,” Sasha says, checking his jeans pockets for his wallet and phone. 

“You got a hotel for tonight?” Zhenya says and Sasha does laugh, then, because he’s never seen Zhenya turn away a guest - couldn’t imagine it until this moment. Not even bothering with the politeness of protesting that Sasha should take the spare room? Zhenya’s been waiting for a while for Crosby to get his shit together, apparently. 

“Yeah, man, don’t worry. I’ll call myself a cab on my way out.” Sasha pulls out his phone and walks over to the couch to pat Zhenya on the shoulder.

For a moment his eyes meet Crosby’s and Sasha thinks Crosby might scowl at him, or worse yet, look grateful or something equally pathetic, but instead Crosby says “Good luck.”

Sasha stares at him, baffled.

“To your girlfriend,” Crosby clarifies. “Whatever she’s doing this summer.”

“Yeah,” Sasha says, still not sure where that came from. “Thanks.” He pats Zhenya on the shoulder, “I’ll see you back home?” he says, in Russian.

“Definitely,” Zhenya says, before smiling up at him and then turning his eyes back on Crosby. He pulls Crosby half on top of him before Sasha can walk out of the room.

*

Sasha decides to walk from Zhenya’s front door to the nearest main street - it takes about ten minutes, from what he remembers, but he could use the time to clear the last of the alcohol cobwebs from his head.

He googles the number for a cab company and then calls Masha. 

“Having fun?” she says, sounding like she’s outside somewhere.

“Oh yeah, definitely,” he says, “But I’ll be in New York tonight.”

“Zhenya kicked you out?” He can hear a car honking in the background.

“Nah,” Sasha says, smiling. “It’s just that I’ve done all I could here, I think.”

**Author's Note:**

> BABY'S FIRST TIME WRITING EITHER GENO OR OVI. Also first time writing Russian character/Russian character interaction. \o/ MAY THIS NOT BE MY LAST TRIP INTO THEIR HEADS.
> 
> The original title of this fic was "confessions over pelmeni and booze".


End file.
